


Candy Cigarettes

by Avastudios



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Decisions, Cherrywood U, Gen, Immortality, Magical Realism, Manipulation, My girl Mazy made a bad deal, She's trying her best though don't @ her, The Sprite Queen, original - Freeform, too much candy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avastudios/pseuds/Avastudios
Summary: In her first life she had been Macy. Now what was she?





	Candy Cigarettes

The cigarette claws its way down your throat. You choke, hiss, and blow. Pink sugar dusts the air. That taste had been on your tongue for hours- for years- but you've never scrubbed it off. And what did it matter? Nothing.

This was up for debate, of course.

In the beginning- when time mattered- you were just a little girl worried for your mommy’s health. Only ten but oh, so brave, everyone assured your weeping mother. All nice intentions and good heart. 

Oh, so brave, cooed the queen as you entered the circle, shorts and tousled hair, ready to make a deal. After all, how could you not be? Only someone with as strong a heart as yours would make a deal with them. 

A few years of servitude, in exchange for mommy's good health. Really healthy, you insisted, and stomped for good measure. The queen tossed her head back and laughed. You pop like an ember from the hearth, she crooned, little Spark. 

Little Spark. You hated how well it fit.

It is only for a few years, the queen crooned, What could go wrong? 

A few years…You took her hand.

Faeries had a way of stretching their time.

When you woke, the worst of the transformation had passed. Your hair had lost its color, and hung down your back like vines. Your skin was soft and delicate, like grass, fearful lest it touch heat. Roots ran through your wrists, climbed up your bones, curled around your ribs like ivy.

That wasn't even the end of it.

Clear, thin wings had torn their way out of your back. As soft as a leaf, as delicate as an insects. There they hung, all useless and whispery.

Like the rest of you now.

"You'll have to learn to use them." the queen cooed, "As the rest of your people have."

Your people.

The first steps you took were stumbled. Your feet kept mashing into the ground-the cool, muddy ground-and your wings itched to launch into the air. The queen laughed.

You became a guard. At least, you think you did. While everyone else fought, you never left the mat, and the only bruises were those inflicted across your jaw.

Who was the enemy: them or you?

Your face hit the mat. Your shoulders stung. They all laughed.

The answer was clear.

"Mazy." the queen cooed, stroking your cheek. You were her favorite. That made it worse, "My Mazy."

Her Mazy.

She took your C.

You had to leave. Now.

(You had to get out of here she was was going to kill you you were becoming just another one of her toys and where’s mommy is she okay what-?)

You did it. You escaped. How, you have no clue, but it what did it matter? You were free. Now you could go to mommy.

But...everything's so different.

Where's Mommy? Where's everybody? Where’s the house? Did they leave? Did they forget me? No, of course they couldn't forget me. But then where are they? What does this stone say-?

No.

No.

Nonono please, no, this can't be happening it can't please nononononotheycan'tbegoneIcan'tbealonenopleaseNO!!!

You're alone now.

You won't go back to the queen. You won't. It doesn't matter that your freedom’s ill-won, that you can never truly escape. You have it, it’s yours, and you're never letting it go. 

Never.

So you re-reinvent yourself.

It’s a cool style. They call it ‘punk.’ Your hair's a dirty brown, covered in cheap dye. Your jeans are ripped. Your eyes bleed glitter. 

People see you on the street and stare, but you don't care. You've distanced yourself from the queen, from the Sprites and the mat and 'little spark.' Your hard work has paid off.

Partially, at least. Enough to stop the fruit from appearing by your head, and the flowers from bowing when you walk. The little Spark, whispered teasingly into the wind.

Your hair’s wilted beneath the toxic chemicals. Your skin becomes mottled and painful. Your wings had been so easy, like tearing paper. It didn't hurt. It didn't.

IthurtithurtohGodithurt-

But that wasn't enough. The Emor- what was its name?- was still there, thrumming inside you. There was distance between her and the queen, but not enough. You were still a Sprite.

You didn't want to be a Sprite.

That was when the candy came in.

Now, the temptation of candy is a dangerous thing, especially for faeries. It's not uncommon to see the occasional elf or dwarf biting a peppermint. This was fine. Taken in small doses, the candy was relatively harmless. Safe.

You didn't want safe. You wanted to rot.

You drowned yourself in powdered sugar, peppermint and twists, hard taffys and soft caramels. The cigarettes in particular became your favorite.

You suffocated beneath a mix of nostalgia, blurry memories, past and present, human and Sprite.

You're going to kill yourself, they hissed, watching incredulously. You smirked and downed a packet of kool aid.

It burned like acid, and didn't always stay down. It became a game-you like games, spark?- of how long could you keep it down. Sometimes it ended over the toilet, retching, bringing everything back up, sweet and burnt and sour. You forced it back down, and shoved even more in. You were not Sprite. You were not human. You would rot.

Things had gotten sort of normal. Routine. Looking in the mirror, you were almost proud at how well you ruined yourself.

Then you became dizzy, and hot, and couldn't sleep. Whispers attacked your ears, not mommy’s soothing lullabies, or the queen's lies and quips and tongue twisters, but a promise, warm and firm.

Come to Cherrywood University. You'll be safe here. You'll fit in here. You'll learn here. Just come and see.

You knew where to go, and had nothing to pack. A new home, you mused, would be handy anyway. It’s awful hard, convincing the landlord to let a ten year old pay rent. Especially with no money. 

Safe here. Fit in here.

That was the promise.

You could hold them to that.

Yet you also knew that this could change everything, make it all go bad. It could be dangerous. They could make you attend classes. Info could be coaxed out of you, regarding your appearance.

It could change everything. It could ruin your life.

The cigarette slid down your throat, scraping your teeth, burning your gums.

Who cared? Lives were interchangeable. 

It exploded in your stomach, all sugar and acid. You nails dig into the chair. You have to resist the urge to wipe away the water pooling in your eyes. 

Eventually, the burns fades to a low sizzle. Your throat dries with it.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you huff a laugh.

Buy one, get three free.

Cherrywood, here I come. Don't disappoint me.


End file.
